Bells for Her
by Morna
Summary: They had always been hurtling towards this from the moment they met. AU. Zelgan.


They had been hurtling towards this.

From the moment he had first presented himself to her when she was a child in her bedchambers as she glimpsed his reflection in her looking glass, the gears and cogs had been setting whirring and grinding in a ceaseless and faultless motion. He had held a book in his hand and smiled at her with the strangest and most melancholy expression she had ever seen. The huge man had crouched down behind her. The young princess had turned in shock, fear written on her features, but she had not been afraid as she knew she ought to be. There was something old and familiar about him even then. He had introduced himself quietly as her first playmate, her only playmate. They had spent countless hours in her nursery as he read to her fairytales and fables that were all myth and an ounce of truth. She had clung to his words and the timbre of his voice as her fingers clutched at his dark, silk robe.

No one else could see him. She had wondered at it, but when questioned about it, he would simply shake his head and avoid her questions. Such an inquisitive child, he would respond affectionately. So she had stopped asking and accepted it as the order of the world as children are known to do. They do not question those constant things in their lives that form the constellations and patterns of they are and who they will be. They are only grateful for the consistency and safety that they offer.

Her nurses had taken him as an imaginary friend she had conjured up out of loneliness, and so they let the peculiar habits of their charge slide unnoticed and unspoken. She was always a fey and ethereal creature to those around her. She seemed formed of mist and frost with her white-blonde hair and violet eyes which made her seem so like the late queen that they thought of her as a half-ghost, some remnant of the king's grief. That's all she was in that castle built of stone and sorrow, a kingdom of former and forgotten glory with an army now as useless as rusted toy-soldiers.

As she grew, so did he. The sad, dark man became her constant confidant and advisor in all things which others would not speak to her about. When her talents shone through, and the gift of prophecy was bestowed upon her, it was he who explained that the strange phantoms that haunted her sleep were not hallucinations of a fevered mind but a mark of the Goddesses favor. He had taught her that those half-formed flashes of memory and sulfur and smoke were messages of ruin to be deciphered and stored away for a later time. He would never speak though of what their real nature was. He would only lift his hand and shake his head, her friend's wide mouth turning into a thin, straight line in his weathered face. It seemed to pain him, and she did not know why or how could she alleviate it. And that caused her pain in turn.

When the last vestiges of girlhood left her behind, her limbs grew straight and long and her body lost its semblance of narrow lines to flow into rounded curves. The changes had frightened her. Men who had paid her no mind before now looked at her and assessed her with feral, appraising eyes. There was hunger in them now. She had no mother to warn her of these new developments, and her ladies in waiting were as helpful as flames are to moths. They only gathered around her for the light she gave off. Her ancient friend had set her aside and told her of the nature and wants of men. She had realized than that he was a man himself, and she was fast becoming a woman. Then their glances had lost some of their sweetness to be replaced with something more potent and dangerous. She found she liked the flavor and promises of those looks when they came from him. They burned past the ether that engulfed her, saw beyond the crown dangling over her head and kingdom sprawling beneath her feet to the wick that was alit inside of her.

One day he had come to her baring books and scrolls and etchings she had never seen before. He told her of a people that were not recalled or recounted in her lessons on history. A people lost to time and memory. He taught her their words and their customs and their stories.

"Why are you teaching me these things?" she had asked.

"Because someone must remember them," the sad man had stated with a voice like a broken glass, all sharp ends and splintered fragments.

Then her father had died. It was an unexpected event. He had been a hale man reaching the end of the prime of his life with strength still in his arm if not in his soul. It was a sickness of the spirit the physicians claimed. He had been found dead in his bed. His heart stopped and his breath gone from his body. The princess had her own suspicions that went unvoiced.

Then the visions came stronger, slashes of red and black, smoke and blood and burning. Her friend came to her as well, but he was different. He seemed to glow with some unknown vitality. There was a richness to him that had been lacking before though she had never noticed it until now. The wheels were spinning now she knew. The Cycle gaining momentum as it threatened to crush everything in its path and go flying out of her trembling grasp.

She was sitting in a chair with her needlepoint in her lap. It fell from her nerveless fingers as she awaited with a dreadful sense of apprehension and resignation for his arrival. He appeared seated in the chair opposite hers with his large hands clasped between his legs, his strong chin jutting out defiantly. His usual silk robes were gone and replaced with black, tarnished armor.

"The seal is weakening," he said.

"I know," was all she could say, staring down at the design stitched into the cloth.

"The other has already awoken."

She nodded and forced herself to look up at him. Even now, he did not seem happy at the prospect of his freedom and long plans coming to fruition. She remembered dimly that he had never seemed truly joyful in all the long years she had known him. Now though those years seemed like the batting of an eye in comparison to the grand architecture against which they stood.

"Will you?" she asked softly.

"Yes."

"Must you?"

"You know the answer to that already, Zelda."

The sound of his voice startled her and caused her to flinch. It was the first time he'd called her by name. He had never even asked for it in all the hours they had spent together in each other's company. He made the syllables of her name sound coarse and violent like an oath sworn in anger, but oddly right at the same time. She wished she had heard it spoken from his lips sooner and under far different circumstances.

"I suppose neither of us can stop it. Not even you, Ganondorf."

**Written to Tori Amos's song "Bells for Her." The idea just came about from listening to that song and thinking about Wind Waker. Ganondorf almost seemed tender towards Zelda. I just always wondered if somehow he couldn't watch over her, and if he could what would he do? **


End file.
